Soup for the Soul
by Riptide2
Summary: "Soup is a lot like family..." This is what he thinks of when he thinks of family. Chicken curry soup and Sam's trust and Constance's kindness. Not a beach in Romania and a three generation old blood feud... Happy July 4!


**A/N:** This story is due entirely to JaniceS who I can't thank enough for the reviews, messages, and encouragement. Your support means the world and your life has touched mine in return. I hope this story illustrates that love can be stronger than hate and I'd like to dedicate it to everyone in places like Ferguson and Charleston who have to live in the midst of such violence.

That said I've never tried to write a softer side of Callen so I apologize if this comes off as out of character. I'd love to hear what you think and reviews feed the plot bunnies ;) Riptide

Soup for the Soul

" _All the great things are simple, and many can be expressed in a single word: freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy, hope."- Winston Churchill._

Callen lets his car drift to the side of the road, kills the engine, and drops his head onto the steering wheel. He's tired, mentally, physically, emotionally exhausted in a way he hasn't been for a very long time. His team isn't much better either, which is why he's here instead of the Mission at four-thirty on a Friday. G can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Hetty's sent them home without finished reports on her desk. This time she took one look at her ragtag group of operatives and kicked them out until Monday.

They`ve spent the week playing catch up, picking up the pieces of a gang war across the city. They`d finally gotten the break they were waiting for three hours earlier, but gangsters don`t do well with _Freeze_ or _Put the guns down._ Their raid had turned into a standoff and then a shootout in a highly populated part of downtown L.A. Two innocent people had gotten caught in the cross fire before Kensi had managed to pick off the last of the machine gun wielding _Saint Locos_. Callen had stayed at the office just long enough to find out that they were both supposed to make a full recovery. Still he knew just how close they`d come to today having a very different result.

Callen shifts forward enough to pull the Sig Sauer from the back of his belt, then he releases the magazine and tucks both into the glovebox. This end of L.A. is sketchy at best and he`s driven past a steady stream of thugs on his way in. G wishes for his gun the moment it leaves his hand because he knows just how bad this neighborhood can be. She`s never allowed guns though and he`s not about to start breaking her rules now. He pauses for a moment before throwing his door open, wondering if he shouldn`t have taken the time to bring his Jag home and get a taxi.

It`s just a car, he decides finally getting out and beeping the lock twice, besides the woman he`s here to see will always be more important. He crosses the street quickly, keeping an eye on the group of thugs down the block that have been watching him since he pulled up. Callen chuckles softly, the sound harsh even to his own ears, because they probably think he`s a lost tourist and nothing could be further from the truth. This place feels oddly like coming home and it turns his stomach the same way it does every time he comes here. There was a time when he knew these streets better than the back of his hand, had to in order to survive, and even now it`s a hell of a lot more familiar than a beach in Romania.

Callen pulls open the door to the South Los Angeles Community Center, shaking his head at the bars over the door and windows. This area hasn`t gotten any better in the last thirty years, not since an eleven year-old runaway had taken shelter behind these walls. He sidles inside, listening to the bell tinkling over the door and tasting spices and warmth in the air. He`s never ceased to be amazed at her ability to create a haven, a _home_ , so close to the reality of those streets.

G`s all too aware of the gazes that shoot up when he enters and those that don`t. He can read in their postures alone who here is hiding, running, which ones he should probably be arresting right now. Instead he nods to the regulars; the ones that know him from his infrequent visits. He watches the others relax as he passes them by to lean against the counter at the back.

Constance, Ms. C to her adopted group of misfits, stands in front of the stove with her back to him. She`s older now obviously, notably so even since the last time he stopped in to check on her, but Callen sees only the same kind-hearted woman who saved him nearly three decades ago. She`s stirring a half-pot of soup, chicken curry by the tang of spice in the air, the same soup she`d pressed into an eleven year-old boys hands all those years ago. He`s smiling when he knocks on the counter, the fingers of his other hand tapping out the melody that she`s humming along to.

"Ms. C," he calls softly, grinning when she throws down her soup spoon with a clatter and hustles through the kitchen door to meet him. Her hugs are as warm and freely given as he remembers and he wraps his arms tight around her, breathing in curry, and rosemary, and the strawberry tang of her shampoo.

"Mr. G," she cries excitedly when he finally pulls away and Callen groans because Constance is the only one he's ever allowed calling him that but Sam would never let him live this down if he found out.

"My dear little boy," She says this wryly because he might be the shortest one on his team but at six foot one he towers over her now. "You have been away for so long," Constance mock scolds but there's a sting of truth in her words and he barely manages to hide a wince. It's been nearly nine months since the last time he stopped in, Callen realizes, longer than he'd meant to be out of contact. He's spent far too long keeping people at arm's length for this to be easy though and he'd only put her in danger by coming here more often.

"I've been busy," Callen says finally, knowing his words will sound as hollow to her as they do to him. It's at times like this that he hates the secrecy involved with who he is, but the truth will only hurt her. _Sometimes it's better to let the lie stand_ , he reminds himself.

"You work too hard," She huffs and Callen has to smother a smile. Constance was like a mother to him long before he met Hetty Lange, before he found out about Clara and this never ending Comescu feud. She reminds him of a softer Hetty, one without the secrets and the well intentioned lies. Callen wonders what she'd think of that because he doesn't doubt that Hetty knows he still comes here.

"Work's been good to me," He says carefully because he's never actually told her what it is that he does. Callen wonders faintly what her reaction would be to finding out that her 'dear little boy' is a government operative, that he's killed in the name of freedom and country.

"One of these days you will be honest with me." She pats his arm before her warm fingers latch around his wrist and she pulls him into the kitchen. Callen flicks a tight smile because there are some instances where the truth does not in fact set you free and he has no intention of Constance ever finding out some of the things he's done for the greater good. He's thankful when they step into the kitchen, knowing that she'll drop it the way she always does.

It's a companionable silence that they sit in after Constance pushes a bowl into his hands, punctuated only by the scrape of chairs and low voices as Ms. C makes her rounds. Callen perks up as he watches her pause at the end of a table and plant her hands on her hips. Constance's light accent becomes more pronounced as her voice rises slightly over the murmur of background noise and Callen's moving instantly to join her.

She's waving him off before he can make it more than three steps though and Callen concedes only because of the smile he can see tugging at the corners of her lips. There's a young boy sitting in front of her curled in on himself protectively in a way that makes it hard to really see his features, though Callen suspects he can't be any more than twelve or thirteen. Ms. C says something else that G can't make out from this distance, motioning insistently with her soup spoon, and the boy finally caves. He pushes the bowl across the table toward her, only for Constance to refill it and press it back into his hands.

 _That was him,_ Callen thinks. Three decades and another lifetime ago he could have easily traded places with the boy, and G smiles to himself because _this_ is what he thinks of when he thinks about family.

He thinks of Constance's kindness and Hetty's care. He remembers Sam's trust and Kensi's heart and Deeks' budding friendship. They're family, maybe not the one he'd been looking to find but family nonetheless, in every way but blood, and it's a lot more than he'd ever expected to have. Constance reappears at his side, looking inordinately pleased with herself, and it occurs to Callen that she's taken an interest in this boy the same way she'd noticed _him_ all those years ago.

"Thank you," Callen says suddenly startling himself because he's been in the spy game far too long to ever speak without thinking, but he's just come face to face with the reality of just how much he _owes_ this woman. He's carved out a spot for himself, made a home here in L.A. with a ragtag family of sorts and a good woman, and none of it would have been possible without Constance.

She reaches over to pat his arm, fingers warm against his skin, and Callen pictures a younger woman in her place, sitting beside a little blonde boy three decades ago, "Eat your soup, son."

….

The title comes from a quote by Marge Kennedy _: Soup is a lot like a family. Each ingredient enhances the others; each batch has its own characteristics; and it needs time to simmer to reach full flavor._

Thanks for reading and as always I don't own NCIS, its characters or setting, and don't profit from this in any way except your feedback!


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